As You Are
by Sydeni
Summary: Steve is a cold-blooded assassin who, like Tony, has known only death and violence since he was a young boy. When Steve arrives to collect details and payment from Hammer for a hit, Tony sees him as his only opportunity for escape. But things don't go as planned and instead of finding transport, he finds himself free from one dangerous man and caught in the clutches of another.


_**Somewhere in Russia.**_

It had been nine years since Tony saw the last American here. Nine years. He was beginning to think Hammer had killed them all.

"Who is he?" Tony's only friend, Rhodey, asks as he pushes himself further into view. "How do you know he's American?"

He pressed his index finger against his lips and Rhodey lowered his whispers, knowing as well as Tony that Hammer, or that God-awful partner of his will hear them and punish them for eavesdropping. Always paranoid. Always assuming the worst. Always approaching everything with caution and weapons, and rightfully so. Such is the way of life filled with drugs and murder and slavery.

Tony peered through the sliver in the door, letting his vision focus on the tall, lean white man who looks as though he was born with the inability to smile.

"I don't know," Tony whispered softly. "I can just tell."

Rhodey squinted his eyes as though it might help him to hear better. Tony could feel the heat from Rhodey's breath warming the skin on his throat as he pressed harder against Tony. They watched the man from the shadow of the tiny room that they had shared since they brought Tony here a year ago. One door. One window. One bed. Four dingy walls and a bookshelf with a few books in the English language which he had read more times than he could count. But they aren't locked in and have never been. Hammer knows that if they ever try to escape that they won't get far. Tony doesn't even know where in Siberia they are. But he knew that wherever it was it wouldn't be easy for a young man like himself to find his way back into the United States alone. The second he walked out that door and made his way down that dark, dusty road alone is the second he choose suicide as his path.

The American, wearing a long, black trench coat over black clothes sits on the wooden chair in the living room, his back straight, and his gaze expertly filtering every motion within the room. But no one seems to notice this but Tony. Something tells him that even though Rhodey and him are completely hidden inside their room in a dark hallway which barely allows them to see the living room that this man knows we're watching. He knows everything that is going on around him: one of Hammer's men standing in the shadow of the opposite hall with his gun hidden at the ready. The six men standing in wait outside on the porch. The two men directly behind him with assault rifles cemented to their hands. These two haven't taken their eyes off the American's back, but Tony thinks the American, although not facing them, sees more of them than they do of him. And then there are the more obvious people in the room: Hammer, a dangerous drug lord who sits directly in front of the American. Smiling and confident and completely unafraid. And then there is Hamer's right hand man, Ivan, wearing his usual nightmarish wear.

"I only agreed to meet with you," the American says in fluent Russian, "because I was assured that you would not waste my time." He glances at Hammer's partner briefly. He licks his lips. The American is unfazed. "I do business only with you. Get rid of the dog or we have nothing to discuss." His unmoving expression never falters.

Hammer's partner looks like someone just slapped him across the face. He starts to speak, but Hammer hushes him with only a look and then jerks his head back slightly to demand he leave the room. He does as he's told, but as usual not without a string of curses that follow him out the front door.

Hammer smirks at the American and raises a mug of coffee to his lips. After taking a sip he says, "My offer is three million, American." He sets the mug on the table that separates the two of them and then leans casually back against the chair, one leg crossed over the other. "I understand that your price was two million?" Hammer turns his chin at an angle, looking to the American for recognition of his generous offer.

The American doesn't give him any.

"I still don't know how you can you understand what they're saying so easily," Rhodey whispers quietly.

Tony wanted to hush him so that he can hear everything between Hammer and the American, but he doesn't.

"Live among only Russian-speaking people for years and you learn to understand it," Tony says, but he never takes his eyes off of them. "In time, you'll be as fluent as I am."

He senses Rhodey's body tense up. He wants to go home as much as Tony did when he was brought here at fourteen. But he knows as well as Tony does that he might be here forever and the heavy weight of that reality is what ultimately makes him quiet again.

"The only reason a man such as yourself," the American begins, "would offer over the going rate would be to secure some kind of hold over me." He lets out a small, aggravated breath and leans his back against the chair, letting his hands slide away from his knees. "Either that, or you're desperate, which leads me to believe that my mark, the one you want me to kill, would be willing to pay me more to kill you."

Hammer's confident grin disappears from his face. He swallows hard and straightens his back awkwardly, but tries to retain some confidence over the situation. For all he knows, that might be exactly why the American is here right now.

"My reasons are not important," Hammer says. He takes another sip from the mug to hide his discomfort.

"You're right," the American says so calmly. "The only important thing here is that you tell Nicholas back there to lower the gun from behind me and that if he doesn't within three seconds he will be dead."

Hammer and one of the men standing behind the American lock eyes. But three seconds goes by too quickly and Tony hears a near-silent shot resound and a 'pop' as a splatter of blood sprays the other man standing beside him. 'Nicholas' hits the floor, dead. No one, not even Tony, seems to know how the American pulled that shot off. He hasn't even moved. The man standing next to the dead man freezes in his spot, his black eyes wide beneath his oily black hair. Hammer purses his lips and swallows again, having a harder time hiding that discomfort of his every unnerving second that passes. His men outnumber the American, but it's obvious that Hammer doesn't want him dead. Not right now. He raises a hand palm up to order the others to lower their weapons.

The American pulls his hand from inside his trench coat and places his gun on his leg for all to see. His finger remains on the trigger. Hammer glances down nervously at the gun once.

Rhodey is digging his fingernails into Tony's ribs. He reaches down carefully to move his hands away, feeling Rhodey's body relax now that he realizes what he's doing. Hs breathing is rapid. Tony drapes his arm around his shoulder and pull him into his chest. He's not used to seeing people die. Not yet. But one day he will be.

Hammer gestures with the dismissing wave of two fingers and says, "Clean this mess up," to the other gunman standing behind the American. The gunman seems more than happy to oblige, not wanting to end up like his comrade. Every eye in the room is on the American. Not that they weren't before, but now they are more obvious, much more observant.

"You've made your point," Hammer says.

"I wasn't trying to make one," the American corrects him.

Hammer nods in acknowledgment.

"Three million American dollars," Hammer says. "Do you accept the offer?"

It's obvious that the American has done more than take Hammer down a few notches. He may not be running away in fear or cowering in the corner, but it's clear that he's been put in his place. And this is not easy to do. It worries Tony what Hammer might do in retaliation when he feels he has the opportunity. It worries Tony only because he needs that American to get him out of here.

"What are they saying?" Rhodey asks, frustrated that he has a long way to go before he will be able to decipher anything said around this place.

Tony doesn't answer, but he squeezes Rhodey's shoulder once to indicate that he needs him to stop talking.

"Three and a half is my price," the American says.

Hammer's face falls and I think his nostrils just flared. He's not used to being second best.

"But you said—"

"The price went up," the American says, leaning his back against the chair again and tapping the butt of his gun softly against his black pants. He offers no more explanation and doesn't need to. Hammer already seems accepting.

Hammer nods. "Yes. Yes. Three and a half million. Can you have it done in one week?"

The American stands up, his long black coat falling about his body. He is tall and intimidating with short blonde hair buzzed around the back and slightly longer and combed on top.

Tony pulls Rhodey away from the door and shuts it softly.

"What are you doing?" Rhodey asks as Tony rushes over to the rickety chest of drawers that holds all of the clothes that he and Tony share.

"We're leaving," Tony says as he shoves whatever he can down inside a pillowcase. "Get your shoes on."

"What?"

"Rhodey, we don't have time for this. Just get your shoes. We can make it out of here with the American."

Tony stuffs the pillowcase half-full and moves to help Rhodey since he's slow to understand what exactly is going on. He grabs his by the arm and push him against the bed.

"I'll help you," Tony says as he knelt in front of him and went to slip Rhodey's bare feet into his shoes.

But he stops Tony.

"No…Tony, I-I can't leave."

Tony let out a heavy breath. He doesn't have time for this but he needs to make time long enough to convince Rhodey that he needs to leave with him. Tony looked up into his eyes. "We will be safe. We can get out of here—Rhodey, he is the first American I've seen in years. He's our only chance."

"He's a killer."

"You're surrounded by killers. Now come on!"

"No! I'm afraid!"

Tony shoots up from his kneeling position and thrusted his hand over Rhodey's mouth. "Shhh! Rhodey, please listen to me—"

He places his fingers over Tony and peels his hand from his lips.

Tears stream from his eyes and he shakes his head rapidly. "I won't go. We'll get caught and Hammer will beat us. Or worse, Ivan will torture and kill us. I'm staying here."

Tony knows that he can't change his mind. Rhodey has that look in his eyes. The one that says he's been broken and he will probably always be broken. Tony puts his hands on his shoulders and looks at him.

"Get under the covers and pretend that you've been asleep," Tony says. "Stay like that until someone comes in and finds you. If they know you knew about me leaving and didn't tell anyone, they will kill you."

Rhodey nods in a nervous jerking motion.

"I will come back for you." Tony shakes him by the shoulders, hoping he'll believe him. "I promise. The first thing I'll do when I get out of this God forsaken place is go to the police."

"But how will you find me?" Tears choke his voice.

"I don't know," Tony admits. "But the American will know. He will help me."

That look in his eyes, it's hopeless. He doesn't believe for a second that this insane plan of Tony's is going to work. And Tony himself probably wouldn't have either nine years ago, but desperation makes a person do crazy things. Rhodey's face hardens and he reaches up to wipe the tears from his cheeks. It's as if he knows this is the last time he will ever see Tony.

"I will come back for you."

Rhodey nods slowly as Tony pushes his way through the tiny room with the pillowcase slung over his back.

"Get under the covers," Tony hisses at him as he pushes open the window.

As Rhodey hides under the blanket, Tony climbed his way out the window and into the mild October cold. He crouched low behind the house as he made his way around the side and through the hole in the fence surrounding the south side of the compound. Hammer has gunmen everywhere, but Tony's always found them rather dense and lacking in the guard-the-compound-from-escapees area because rarely does anyone try to escape. Mostly the guards all stand around talking and smoking cigarettes and making vulgar gestures to the other boys who are enslaved here. The one standing at the entrance to the armory is the one who tried to rape Tony six weeks ago. The only reason Hammer didn't kill him is because that one was important to Hammer's boss. Or so Tony heard.

But important or not, he is now a eunuch.

Weaving his way in-between small buildings, Tony makes it to the tree-line as he stops in the shadows cast by the nearby house. He stands up straight and presses his back against the stucco as he made his way carefully around to the front where the twelve-foot barbwire fence starts at the front gate. Outsiders are always made to park their vehicles just beyond it where they are escorted into the compound on foot.

The American would not have been allowed in any differently. Tony's sure of it… Or so he hopes.

A large swath of light from the post covers the space between him and the area of the gate that he needs to get to. There is one guard posted there, but he's younger and Tony thinks he can take him. He's had plenty of time to work these things out. All of his teenage life. He had steal a handgun from Ivan's room last year and had kept it hidden under a floorboard of his and Rhodey's room ever since. The second Tony saw the American enter the house he had pulled back the floorboard to retrieve it and shoved it in the back of his shorts. Tony knew he'd need it tonight.

He inhaled a deep breath and dashed across the light in the wide open and hoped that no one spotted him. He ran hard and fast with the pillowcase beating against his back and the gun gripped in his hand so tight it hurt the bones in fingers. He made it to the fence and breathed a sigh of relief when he found another shadow to hide within. Shadows move at a distance, coming from the house he had just left. Tony felt sick to his stomach and could actually vomit if he didn't know he had more important things to do and fast. His heart was hammering against his ribcage as he spotted the guard out ahead standing near the front gate and leaning against a tree. The hot amber of a cigarette glows around his copper-colored face and then fades as he pulls his lips away from the filter. The silhouette of his assault rifle gives the impression that he has the gun strap tossed over one shoulder. Thankfully he wasn't holding it at the ready. Tony walked quickly along the edge of the fence, trying to stay hidden in the shadow cast by the trees on the other side of it. His worn out flip-flops moved over the soft sand making no sound at all. The guard is so close that he could smell the funk of his body odor and see the oil glistening in his unwashed air.

Tony crept up closer, hoping his movement didn't attract the guard. He's right behind him now and Tony's about to pee himself. His legs are shaking and his throat was closed up almost to the point that he could hardly breathe. Carefully and as quietly as possible, Tony pulled his gun back and hit him over the head with the butt as hard as he can. A loud 'whack' and a 'crunch' turned his stomach. The guard falls over unconscious and the burning cigarette hits the sand beside his knees. Tony grabbed his gun, practically having to tear it off his arm because of the heavy weight of his body, and then he took off running through the cracked gate and outside the compound.

Just as Tony had hoped there is only one vehicle parked out front: a slick black car that is probably the most out-of-place object in this area for miles. Nothing here but slums and filth. This is an expensive city car with shiny rims and an attitude.

One more hurdle. But upon seeing the car Tony's confidence in the American having left the doors unlocked are diminishing. Surely he wouldn't in these parts. He placed his hand on the back passenger's side door as he held his breath. The door pops open. Tony doesn't have time to be relieved when he hears voices coming through the front gate and he catches a glimpse of a moving shadow from the corner of his eye. Tony crawled in the back floorboard and shut the door quickly before those approaching are close enough to hear it shut.

Oh no…the overhead light.

Tony grit his teeth watching the light fade above him so slowly that it was torturous, until finally it blinked out and left him in the darkness. After shoving the pillowcase underneath the driver's seat, he tries to hide the stolen rifle just behind the seat between the leather and the door. It leaves him with enough time to squeeze his frail body as far into the floorboard as he could. Tony wrapped his arms tight around his knees which are pressed against his chest as he arced my back over and hold the awkward position.

The voices fade and all that is left is the sound of one pair of legs approaching the car. The trunk pops open and seconds later it closes again.

Tony is holding his breath when the front driver's side door opens and the overhead light pops on again. The American shuts the door behind him and Tony felt the car move as The American positioned himself in the front seat. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Finally the light fades. Tony heard the key being slid into the ignition and then the engine purrs to life.

_Why aren't we moving? Why are we just sitting here? Maybe he's reading something._

And then he says aloud in Russian, "Cocoa butter lotion. Warm breath. Sweat."

It takes a moment for Tony's brain to register the meaning behind his strange words and to realize that he's actually talking to him.

Tony rose up quickly from behind the seat and cocked the handgun, pressing the barrel against the back of The American's head.

"Just drive," Tony commanded in English, his hands shaking as he held the gun in place. He's never killed anyone before and he don't want to, but he's not going back into that compound.

The American slowly raises his hands. The glint of his thick silver watch catches Tony's eye but he doesn't let it distract him. Without another word he places one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear shift, putting the car into Drive.

"You're American," he says calmly, but Tony detects the tiniest ounce of interest in his voice.

"Yes, I'm American, now please just drive."

Keeping the gun pointed at his head, Tony maneuvered himself into the backseat as he pulled the gun away from The American's reach. Tony catches him glimpse at him in the rearview mirror, but it's so dark inside the car with just the low lights from the dashboard that all Tony could see are his eyes for a brief moment as they sweep over him.

Finally the car goes into forward motion and he puts both hands on the steering wheel. He's being calm and cautious, but Tony gets the feeling he isn't the slightest bit worried about him or what he might be capable of doing. That scares Tony. Tony would rather him be begging for his life, stuttering over words of plea, promising him the world. But he looks as dangerous and as uninterested as he did back inside the house even when he put a bullet in that gunman's head he so casually named Nicholas.

They had been driving for twenty-eight minutes. Tony had been watching the clock in the dashboard, the glowing blue numbers already starting to burn through to his subconscious. The American hasn't said a word. Not one word. Tony knows it has nothing to do with being afraid. He's the one with the gun but he's the only one of them who is afraid. And Tony doesn't understand why he hasn't spoken. Maybe if he would just turn the radio on…something…because the silence is killing him. He's been trying to keep his eyes on him while at the time trying to get some kind of idea of his whereabouts. But so far the only landmarks that Tony has seen are trees and the occasional stucco house or dilapidated building—it all looks the as the compound.

Thirty-two minutes in and Tony realizes he's already lowered the gun at some point. His finger is still on the trigger and he's ready to use it if he has to, but Tony was stupid to think he could hold it up pointed directly at him for longer than a few minutes.

Tony doesn't know what he's going to do when he gets tired. Thankfully the adrenaline is keeping him wide awake for now.

"What's your name?" Tony asks him, hoping to stir the silence.

Tony needs to get him to trust him, to want to help him.

"My name is inconsequential."

"Why?"

He doesn't respond.

Tony swallowed the lump in his throat, but another one just forms in its place.

"My name is Anthony."

Still no response.

It kind of feels like torture to Tony, the way he ignores him. He's beginning to think that is exactly what he's doing: torturing him with silence.

"I need you to help me," Tony says. "I've been a prisoner of Hammer since I was fourteen-years-old."

"And you assume I'm going to help you because I am also American," he says simply.

Tony hesitates before he answers, "I-I…well, why wouldn't you?"

"It is not my business to interfere."

"Then what is your business?" Tony asks with a trace of distaste. "To murder people in cold blood?"

"Yes."

A shiver moves through his back.

Not knowing what to say to something like that, or even if Tony should, he decides it's best to change the subject.

"Can you just get me out of here?" Tony asks, becoming more desperate. "I'll—." He lowers his eyes in shame. "I'll do whatever you want. But please, please just help me get over the border." And Tony knows he understands what it means to do whatever he wants. He hates himself for offering his body to him, but like Tony said before about desperation….

"If you are referring out of Russia," he says and for some reason his voice surprises Tony, "then you must know the distance is longer than I care to have you in my car."

"W-Well how long would you allow me?"

Tony catches his dark eyes in the rearview mirror again. They lock on his and this too sends a shiver through Tony's back.

He doesn't answer.

"Why won't you help me?" Tony asks, finally accepting the fact that no matter what he says to him, it's futile. And when he still doesn't answer, Tony sighs with exasperation, "Then pull over and let me out. I'll walk the rest of the way myself."

Tony could have sworn his eyes just faintly smiled at him through the mirror. Yes, he's positive that's what he saw. He knows as well as Tony does that he's better off getting dragged back to the compound than being let out of the car and on his own.

"You will need more than the six bullets you have in that handgun."

"So then give me more bullets," Tony barks, getting angrier. "And this isn't the only gun I have."

That seems to have piqued his interest, although small.

"I took the rifle off the guard I hit over the head when I got past the fence."

He nods once, so subtly that if Tony would've blinked in that moment he never would've seen it.

"It is a good start," he says and then puts his eyes back on the road for a moment and turns left at the end. "But what will you do when you run out? Because you will."

Tony hates him.

"Then I'll run."

"And they will catch you."

"Then I'll stab them."

Suddenly, the American veers slowly off the road and stops the car.

_No, no, no!_

This isn't how it was supposed to happen. Tony expected him to keep driving because he knew if he left him out here all alone like this that whatever happened to Tony would be on his conscience. But Tony guessed he doesn't have much of one. His dark eyes gaze evenly at Tony through the mirror, not a trace of compassion or concern in them. Tony wants to shoot him in the back of the head on principle. He just stares at Tony with that small 'what-are-you-waiting-for' look and Tony doesn't budge. He glanced carefully at the door and then back at him and then down at his gun and back at him again.

"You can use me as leverage," Tony broke the silence, because it's all he has left.

His eyebrows barely move, but it's enough that Tony's gotten his attention.

"I'm Hammer's favorite," Tony says, swallowing the bile rising up his throat, but goes on. "I'm…different…from the other boys."

"What makes you think I need leverage?" The brown-eyed Devil asks.

"Well, did Hammer pay you the whole three and a half million?"

"That is not how it works," he says.

"No, but I know how Hammer works and if he didn't give you the full amount before you left then he never will."

"Are you going to get out?"

Tony sighed heavily and glanced out the window again as he raised the gun back up and glared, "You're going to drive me to where I need you to."

The American licks the dryness from his lips and then the car starts moving again. Tony's playing everything by ear now. All of the planned parts of his escape ended when he got inside this car.

When the American spoke of the Russian border, it came off to Tony as if he was closer to the borders of other countries than Finland and this terrified him. If he was closer to China or Ukraine than Finland then he very much doubted that he will make it out of this alive. Tony had looked at maps. But he always blocked the possibility of being further East completely from his mind because he never wanted to accept that he could be that far away from home.

Home. That really was such a placeholder word. Tony didn't have a home in the United States at all. He didn't think he ever really did. But, it was where he was born and where he was raised, though little did his parents do to raise him, really. But Tony wanted to go home because it will always be better than where he's spent the last nine years of his life.

He positioned his back partially against the door and partially against the seat so that he could keep his eyes straight on the American. How long Tony could keep this going is still up in the air. And The American knows it.

Maybe Tony should just shoot him and take the car. But then again, little good it will do when he's driving around aimlessly in this foreign country that he has seen nothing from other than violence and rape and murder and everything else unimaginable. Hammer is a very powerful man. Very rich. The compound is filthy and misleading. He could be like the drug lords he saw when Tony used to have the luxury of American television; the ones with rich, immaculate homes with swimming pools and ten bathrooms, but Hammer seems to prefer the façade. Tony didn't know what he spends his fortune on, but it's not on real estate as far as he could tell.

It had been over an hour. Tony was getting tired. He could feel the burning behind his eyes, spreading thinly around the edges of his eyelids. Tony doesn't know who it is he think he's kidding. He has to sleep sometime and the second that he dozes off is when he'll wake up either back at the compound tied to the chair in Hammer's room, or when he doesn't wake up at all.

He needed to keep talking to help him stay awake.

"Can't you just tell me your name?" Tony tried once more. "Look, I know I'm not getting out of this country alive. Or your car for that matter. I know that my attempt to escape was wasted the second I stepped out of that gate. So, the least you can do is talk to me. Think of it as my last meal."

"I am not good at being the shoulder to cry on, I am afraid."

"Then what are you good at?" Tony cocked his brow, asking. "Besides killing people, of course."

He noticed his jaw move slightly, but he hasn't looked at Tony in the rearview mirror in a while.

"Driving," he answers.

Okay, this is going nowhere.

Tony wanted to cry out of frustration.

Fifteen more minutes of silence passed and Tony notices that his surroundings are beginning to feel all too familiar. They were going in circles and have been all this time. For a split second Tony starts to say something about it, but he decides it's probably better that he doesn't let him know that he's onto him.

Tony leaned up a little from the seat and pointed the gun at him and say, "Turn left up here." And he does this for the next twenty minutes, forcing him to go his way even though Tony had no idea where he was taking them. And he plays along, never breaking a sweat, never giving Tony the slightest impression that he's worried or afraid of having a gun at his back. The longer we do this the more Tony began to realize that even though he's the one with the gun, The American had this whole situation under more control than he thought I did.

What did I get myself into?

More long minutes pass and Tony has lost track of time. He's so tired. His lids getting heavier. He snaps his head away from the seat behind him and press his finger against the window button to lower the glass. The warm night air rushes inside the car, tossing his dark brown hair about his face. Tony is now forcing his eyes open wide and positioning himself in a more uncomfortable way to help keep him awake, but it doesn't take long to notice that nothing is working.

The American watches every move he's making from the mirror. Tony notices him every once in a while.

"What makes you his favorite?" he asks and it stuns Tony.

He was sure he'd been waiting all this time for him to doze off; if he would've waited a few more minutes that's probably what would've happened. Now he's talking to him? Tony's thoroughly confused, but he'll take it.

"I wasn't bought," Tony answered.

Finally he asks Tony a direct question which could lead to conversation and maybe his help, but ironically the topic makes it difficult to take advantage of the opportunity. It's hard to talk about even though Tony is the one who initially brought it up.

Tony waits for a long moment before he continues.

"I was brought here a long time ago…by my mother. Hammer saw something in me he didn't see in the other boys. I call it a sickening obsession, he calls it love."

"I see," he says and although his words are few, Tony can tell they hold more weight than they appear.

"I'm from New York," Tony murmurs. "All I want is to get back there. I'll pay you. If you don't want…me…I'll find a way to pay you cash. I'm good for my word. I wouldn't try to hide from you. I would eventually pay my debt."

"If a drug lord believes he is in love with you," he says casually, "it would not be me you had to hide from."

"Then you know that I'm in a lot of danger," Tony quickly responds.

"Yes, but that still does not make you my problem."

"Are you human?" Tony hates him more every time he speaks. "What kind of man would not want to help a defenseless person out of a life of bondage and violence, especially when he has escaped his captors and is directly pleading for your help?"

He doesn't answer.

_Why doesn't that surprise me?_

Tony sighs heavily and presses his back against the seat again. His trigger finger is cramped from being in the curled position for so long against the metal. Lowering the gun farther behind the seat so that he can't see, Tony switches hands long enough to wriggle his fingers around for a moment as he placed his thumb over the top of each finger individually and press down to ease the stiffness.

"I'm not lying to you," Tony breaks the silence. "About Hammer and your money."

Tony caught his eyes looking at him in the mirror again.

"I've had plenty of time to see how he does business," Tony goes on as he griped the gun in his right hand again though to the argument of his aching fingers. "He would rather kill you than pay you."

His eyes are greenish-blue. Tony can see them more clearly now that they're riding through a small town with street lights. And small is an understatement because in under a minute they're engulfed by the darkness of the desolate highway again with nothing in sight except the starlit desert-like landscape.

Tony starts talking once more; his last ditch attempt to keep himself awake. He doesn't care anymore if he adds to the one-sided conversation, Tony just needed to stay conscious.

"I guess if you had a son or a brother you might care a little more. I had somewhat of a life before my mother brought me here. It wasn't much of one, but it was one, nonetheless. We lived in a tiny trailer with cockroaches and walls so thin it felt like sleeping right on the desert floor in the winter. My mother was a slave to her addiction. Crack. Meth. You name it she loved it. But not me. I wanted to finish school and get a scholarship to whatever college would have me and make a life for myself. But then I was brought here and all that changed. Hammer was sleeping with my mother for a while, but he always had his eyes on me…."

Tony thought he had just dozed off for a second.

He snapped his eyes open to take a deep breath, pressing his face near the open window to let the air hit him. And the next thing he knew, he felt a white-hot pain to the side of his head before every thing went black.

* * *

The sound of trickling water wakes Tony. His eyes creep open, flinching at the light pouring in through some nearby window. He can tell that he's in a room somewhere. His vision is blurred and his head feels like it was banged against a brick wall the night before. The left side of his face feels swollen.

He tries to lift up but something is tied around his wrists and his ankles. When his brown eyes gradually blur into focus he sees that he's lying on a bed in a dingy room with tan tapestry wallpaper and dusty mismatched furniture. The television looks just like the one at the compound: ancient and probably only picks up one channel which Tony's sure is the one that runs the dramatic Russian soap operas. In his direct line of vision he sees the thick green curtains on the window and pushed against them is a tiny square table with a single wooden chair. A long black trench coat hangs over the back of it.

Realizing what must've happened and his instincts finally catching up to him, Tony forces himself onto his back so that he could see the rest of the room. So he could find the American who he knew brought him here, wherever here is.

_He tied me up. Oh no…he tied me up._

When Tony finally notices him, he's sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed, it startles him as Tony yelped and fell off the bed and onto the floor, his hands and legs bound tight so he couldn't do anything to brace for the impact. He hit the floor hard as pain shot up from his hip and through his back. "Oww!" Tony moaned loudly. In no time he's trying to twist the fabric loose from his wrists as he squirmed around on the floor.

The American stood over Tony like a ghost from out of nowhere.

"Why did you tie me up?" Shaking now, hoping he wouldn't notice. He didn't want The American to know the true level of his fear.

He leaned over and picked Tony up from the floor and laid him back on the bed. Tony trying to kick and hit him until he realizes how stupid that must look because the only thing it might do is cause him to fall and hit the floor again. Without answering, he goes back around to the other side where he was sitting and puts his hand in a bowl of water on the night stand. He wrings the water from a rag and brings it toward Tony's face, but he tries to pull away from him. It doesn't faze him. Nothing ever seems to, really. Tony knows he's not going anywhere right now so he just lay there very still, staring directly into his blue eyes even though he wasn't looking back into his.

Tony wanted him to look into his eyes, to see the anger in his face, but he doesn't care to look.

"You punched me?" Tony couldn't believe it, but then again he could.

"Yes." He dabs the cold wet cloth over his left eye and around the bone.

"So you're a murderer and a child-beater."

His deep blue eyes finally look directly into Tony's and his hand stops moving as if his accusations struck him the wrong way.

He looks away and goes back to dabbing Tony's face.

"I don't hit kids," he says, "unless they have a gun pointed at my head."

Tony didn't respond to that. He makes a notable argument, if it can be called an argument.

"Do I have a black eye?"

"No," he says, pulling the wet rag away. "I did not hit you that hard. Just a little swollen."

Tony looked at him like he was crazy. "No? Yet you hit me hard enough to knock me unconscious the whole night?"

He stands up from the bed, his tall height looming over his prisoner, and walks over to his coat hanging over the back of the chair. He reaches inside one of the pockets and pulls out a bottle of pills.

"You woke up shortly after I knocked you out," he says as he twists the cap off the bottle. "I had to drug you."

Tony blinked back the stun.

He shuffles a little white pill into the palm of his hand and holds it out to Tony. He's still looking at him like he's crazy, maybe now even more-so.

"You drugged me? What is that?"

_I want to slap him._

If Tony's hands weren't bound he would.

"Sleeping pill," he says, putting the pill to Tony's bruised lips. "Harmless. I take it myself. You, on the other hand, only need half of one, I know that now."

Tony spit the pill onto the yellowed sheet beneath him.

"I think I've slept enough."

"Suit yourself." He slides the bottle back inside his coat and moves toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

He stops at the window instead and pulls the curtain closed the rest of the way but remains at it watching out through a crack in the thick fabric. With his back to Tony, he tried quietly to work his wrists free.

"Nowhere at the moment," he says and then turns around again as Tony stops struggling with his bonds in an instant so that he doesn't notice.

"Okay…well then what are we doing here and why am I tied up?"

He looks right at me. "Waiting on the men Hammer sent here to get you."

Tony started to thrash around after that, trying his hardest to get his hands and legs free, but to no avail. He tied him better than they tied the pigs back at the compound.

"Please! You can't let them take me! I'm begging you…."

"It is out of my hands," he says looking back out the window. "It is why I offered the pill. I thought you'd prefer to be unconscious when they arrive."

Tony felt like he was going to be sick. His heart was beating too fast, his insides was stiffening and he felt like he couldn't breathe. Tony forced his aching body to sit upright and as he threw his legs over the side of the bed to try and stand.

"Sit down," he says turning to look at Tony.

Tears barrel from Tony's dark brown eyes as he raised his bound hands out toward him. "Please…," choking on his tears, his chest shuddering and jerking with fast, uneven breaths. "Don't let them take me back there!"

"I will ask you one more time," he says turning to face Tony fully. "Do you want to be awake for what is about to happen?"

"I don't want it to happen!" He screamed.

Tony pulled his arms up to try and work the fabric loose from his wrists with his teeth. The American ignored Tony and moved over to a long black flat suitcase of sorts sitting on the floor propped against the far wall. Carrying it by the handle he places it on the end of the bed near him and flips the latches to raise the lid, blocking Tony's view from what's hidden inside.

A sharp glint of reflective sunlight beams against the back of the curtain and the sound of squeaky brakes outside twists Tony's stomach into knots further. Freezing on the edge of his bed, his teeth still clenched around the fabric, his eyes wide and fearful. Tony glanced to and from the door and the American who stands at the foot of the bed twisting a long metal thing on the end of a slick black handgun. And then so fast, yet as casual as an early morning walk, he closes the suitcase and slides it underneath the bed and out of sight.

He began to prowl towards Tony.

Tony tried to kick him again but his bound ankles keeps him from doing anything but nearly causing him to fall off the bed again.

"No! Leave me alone! Please don't do this!"

With his free hand he grabbed Tony by his thin elbow and pulled him harshly to his feet, the gun pointed at the floor in his other hand as he walked Tony awkwardly across the small room and toward a tiny restroom.

There is a knock at the door but the American pays no attention to it. He drags the wide-eyed teen into the restroom and practically pushes him into the disgusting tub. Tony thinks his head is going to hit the side but The American holds him by the fabric on his wrists and lowers him in the rest of the way safely.

"Stay down low. Don't raise your head and don't move."

"What?" Tony blinked back the confusion. He was so scared he felt like he was going to lose control of his bladder any second now.

"Do you understand?" he asks, looming over the tub. The seriousness in his eyes is palpable.

Tony hesitated because, no, he didn't understand, but he nodded in fast, jerking motions. What else was he going to do?

He reaches around to the back of his pants and slides a knife out from somewhere. Tony's eyes grow wide as the sharp silver moves toward him. Just when Tony thinks that he's going to cut me, even though he don't know why he'd go through all of this just to kill him, he cuts the bonds from his ankles.

"Stay down," he demands Tony one last time.

And just like that he leaves the restroom and shuts the door behind him.

Frozen in shock, it takes Tony a moment to get his head together. Gazing down at his unbound feet and wondering why he did it. Why keep his hands bound but allow him the use of his legs again so that he can run away? It didn't matter. Tony needed to free his hands, too. He bared his teeth, biting down on the tight knots again, working at them furiously but only getting frustrated. Barely lifting his head from the tub to get a better view of the restroom, looking for anything that might work as a knife or scissors so he can try cutting it away instead. Nothing. Just a bone-dry deep plastic industrial-type sink with paint, oil and dirt stains and a disgusting toilet with no lid.

The door opens to the motel room and Tony hears voices inside.

"Where is he?"

_Oh no…that's Ivan's voice!_

Tony's heart began to speed up fast. He felt lightheaded as the blood rushed quickly to his head. Bitting down on the fabric even harder, twisting the impossible knots with his teeth until it hurt.

"Hammer wonders why you didn't just bring him back yourself," Ivan adds with his trademark accent and sarcastic tone.

There are more voices, male, speaking Russian among themselves while Ivan talks only to the American. Their voices are muffled. Tony can't make out what they're saying.

"Have a seat," the American says calmly.

"We didn't come here to visit," Ivan refuses. "Give me Tony…or—." Tony could picture him walking towards the American like the predator he was. "Or, I can fill you up with lead."

His voice stops abruptly and his menacing tone disappears in an instant.

"You and I both know that'd be the second stupidest thing you done today. The first was coming here without Hammer," the American answers.

"Bring him out here," Ivan demands, his voice laced with contempt.

"Sit first," the American says.

Suddenly Tony's ears pick up the sound of guns cocking and instinctively he lowers his body back into the tub as flat as he can make himself. He's beginning to understand why The American forced him in here like this.

"There are five of us and one of you," Ivan says venomously.

Then a shot rings out and Tony stiffens against the hard plastic beneath him. More shots. Bullets pepper the walls; two move straight through the wall into the restroom where he lay huddled. He can hear glass shatter and what sounds like bodies stampeding through the room beyond him. More shots ring out and Ivan's screams curses over the chaos. The walls shake all around Tony, knocking thick layers of dust from the exposed light bulb hanging from the water damaged ceiling above. Hearing a loud crunch and then the sound of the large window in the room shattering as if someone or something was just pushed through it.

Everything goes silent. All that can be heard now is his heart beating so fast and violently. Tony's so scared he can't even manage tears anymore and his body has stopped shaking. He's paralyzed with fear.

The acrid smell of gun smoke lingers in the air.

_Is the American dead?_

It's all Tony can think about.

Maybe they're all dead and I can get out of here alive.

Tony motioned to climb his way out of the tub when he hears Ivan:

"Fuck you. I won't tell you shit!"

There is a brief bout of silence and then he hears the American say calmly, "You've already told me most of what I need to know."

"How is that?"

"If Hammer wanted me alive to kill Stane your men never would have drawn on me."

"He did want you to kill him."

"So then your men are simply stupid."

Ivan says nothing in response, but Tony can picture the expression he wears: sour mixed with evil.

Quietly, he began to crawl out of the tub, careful not to make any abrupt movements as he reached out for the door handle. It comes open the second his fingers touch it as though it hadn't been shut all the way before, though he know that it had. It must've been jarred loose when he heard someone bash against it during the fight.

Tony pushed it open barely a crack. The mirror over the sink just outside the door is in view. All that's left of it now are three large uneven shards of broken glass barely hanging onto the wall.

He could see the American's back through the reflection.

"I should tell you," he says. "There will be a new deal now."

"You're not the one to be making deals," Ivan spits out the words.

"I believe that I am," he replies. "First, you will tell me what Hammer's plans were in bringing me to the compound."

"I'll tell you shit!"

A muffled shot makes a quick _fuddup_ sound and then Ivan screams out in pain. "You fucking shot me!"

The American moves over and out of sight of the mirror, leaving Tony to glimpse at Ivan sitting on the chair next to the wall. His face glistens with sweat and blood drains from the gunshot wound on his thigh, his hands pressed over it trying to stop the flow. His bronzed face is contorted in agony and anger. He spits at the floor defiantly.

"Merely a flesh wound," the American says.

Tony pushed himself farther against the door. A pair of hands lay open near Ivan's feet: one of the men the American just killed. Tony swallowed hard and try to calm his breathing. The door moved as his hip brushed against it and he sucked in sharply that breath he had just took. Ivan's head darts sideways as he faces the mirror. He knows Tony's hiding in here. He tries to step away from the door and move back into the darkness of the restroom, but he sees me. A grin spreads across his face.

"Come out, Tony," he says harmoniously. "Hammer misses you."

Tony freezes.

Maybe if Tony remained still, what he sees in the reflection of the mirror he'll start to believe is just the light playing tricks on his eyes.

He turns his gaze away from Tony as if the American has done something to regain his attention.

"Hammer wants Stane dead," Ivan says. "He wouldn't have hired you and let you leave with that money if he didn't." He sneers and shakes his head at the American and adds, "You're a fool."

Tony could hear the bed creak as if he just sat on the end of it, facing him. While Ivan's distracted, Tony positioned himself farther back from the edge of the door, but in a way that he could get a better view of the room through the reflection in the mirror. He glimpsed at another body lying haphazardly against the wall on the other side of Ivan.

"And if I kill Stane," the American says, "I will have no trouble getting the other half of my money." It was a statement, but at the same time, a question.

Ivan grins. "Of course." He tilts her head to one side. "He's gotten to you already."

No answer.

Tony knows Ivan is referring to him.

"The boy wasn't bought or sold, just so you know," he adds.

"I didn't ask."

"You didn't need to."

Ivan looks toward the mirror again, without moving his head.

"Going to be the hero?" he says this with sarcasm lacing his voice.

"Hardly," the American says. "I'm going to use him as leverage."

Tony swallowed. Hard.

_Should've kept my mouth shut…._

"That won't sit well with Hammer. He wasn't part of the deal. You keep the boy and Hammer will not be happy." A strand of black hair falls away from Ivan's face. He reaches up as if to move the rest of his hair away, but his hand stops halfway and he places it back down beside him. Anger helps to hide the fear in his face somewhat. He knows that The American will blow his brains out the back of his head.

"The boy stays with me until I kill Stane and then we will make the trade: him for the rest of my money."

"And what if Hammer doesn't give a shit?"

"You wouldn't be here now if he didn't."

Ivan rounds his chin defiantly, the skin around his dark eyes peppered with tiny flecks of blood-splatter.

"You're making a mistake," he spats, defeat in his voice. "If you want a boy, Hammer will give you one. Just not that one. You'll only make him your enemy by doing this."

Tony knew that worry in his voice all too well. When Hammer is unhappy, he tends to blame it on Ivan. If he doesn't return to the compound with him, he'll beat him senseless. As much as Tony hated him for the things he's done to him, he couldn't help but pity him sometimes, too.

"Your offer offends my intelligence," the American says. "He is the one I want because he is the one he treasures the most. If Hammer has no ill intentions then he should have nothing to worry about." Ivan glances toward the bathroom door quickly while he speaks. "I keep the girl until I kill Stane. Hammer pays me the remainder of my money. I give the boy back. We all leave with what we want."

Tony wanted to dash out of the bathroom and try for one of the cars outside, but he knew he wouldn't make it. His palms were sweating and stinging. He had cut his left hand somewhere at some point. He can't remember when it happened.

Ivan curses him in Russian and presses the palms of his hands on the seat beneath him and begins to rise into a stand.

The American very casually raises his gun and Ivan freezes, anger and resistance in his face.

"Fold your hands together behind the chair," the American says.

"Go fuck yourself."

_Thwap._ Ivan's body jerks sideways, almost knocking the chair over with him in it. "Motherfucker!" He cries out, holding him hand over a fresh bullet wound on the opposite thigh to match the other one.

The American never moves, his expression and posture always casual and controlled.

"Fold your hands together behind the chair," he says once more with the exact amount of calm as before.

This time, Ivan is compliant. Reluctant and defiant as always, but compliant.

"Come out of the bathroom," Tony hears the American say.

He doesn't want to. He quietly pushes his back against the wall, thrusting his bound hands over his chest and locking his fingers together nervously in front of him. Trying to sniffle back the tears, the taste of salt draining down the back of his throat.

_What should I do? If I just stand here like this it'll only prolong the inevitable. There's no way out of this bathroom except through that door_

Finally, Tony does as he's told.

Trying to push the door open the rest of the way, he has to shoulder it hard because of the body lying on the floor on the other side. Tony tries not to look when he steps around the man's left arm, contorted unnaturally behind him, but he catches a glimpse enough that it makes his stomach churn. Especially when he sees his eyes. It's always the eyes, lifeless and empty and glazed over, that makes Tony sick to his stomach. Ivan is smiling across at Tony, not as affected by two gunshot wounds as one would imagine anyone else might be. His breathing is labored and he strains to keep his composure for the sake of taunting Tony.

"Come here," the American says and with a nod, Tony does.

He pulls the knife from his pocket again and his eyes avert to Tony's bruised wrists briefly. Assuming—and hoping—it's what he wants, he holds his shaking hands out to him. He slides the blade behind the fabric and cuts Tony loose.

"Did you tell him that you're a whore?" Ivan asks.

Tony swallows what saliva is left in his mouth. He's no whore, but Ivan has always had a way with somehow making him feel ashamed by his accusations. Tony pretends to be more fixated on his wrists, now that they are no longer tied together.

Ivan turns to the American, his hands still folded loosely behind his back. He says with a spiteful smile, "If you're feeling sorry for him, don't. That little bitch is treated better than anyone, even better than me and I am his confidant. Hammer has him anytime he wants him. And he doesn't have to take it."

Tony felt his fingers digging into his palms down at his sides now, but shame eclipses his anger. What Ivan says is only halfway true, but right now isn't the time to defend himself. Nothing that Tony says will matter. Not to the American and certainly not to him. He only cared what the American thinks because Tony needed him to help. If he thought of Tony as a whore, he'll surely be less inclined later on. If he could ever convince him to help, that is, which is doubtful.

Showing absolutely no interest in Ivan's obvious attempt to mar his character, the American points to his bag on the table by the window and directs his words to Tony, "Left zipper, inside pocket you'll find a rope."

Walking across the room carefully, Tony's heart pounding violently against his ribs when he goes between the two, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end as I pass them. He halfway expects Ivan to use the opportunity to reach out and grab Tony, but he is relieved when he doesn't dare move. Making his way through more bodies and debris scattered about the small area, this time he's too afraid of the two still alive in the room to let himself notice the dead eyes staring up at him from the floor. Tony can smell the blood. At least, he's pretty sure that faint metallic stench is blood. There's so much of it all around him. The curtain on the broken window blows inward as a small gust of warm wind pushes through. Tony reaches inside the American's black bag and shuffles around looking for the rope. He's far too nervous to look inside the bag. There's no telling what he carries in this thing.

With the wad of rope in his hand, Tony briefly wonders why he didn't use this tougher stuff on him instead of strips of fabric from the bed sheet. He turns around and looks only at the American waiting for whatever he might tell Tony to do next, trying to make as little eye contact with Ivan as possible. It never takes him much to intimidate me.

The American nods toward Ivan.

"Tie his hands behind the chair at his wrists," he instructs.

Tony's heart leaps. Still trying his best to keep from looking at Ivan, the attempt is thrown out the window with his words and look at him is exactly what Tony does.

_He'll surely grab me if I'm standing that close._

The conflict in Tony's brown hues tells the American everything that the words Tony can't get out, can't.

He moves the gun in his hand subtly at Ivan, his wrist still propped on his leg. "He will not touch you," he says, eyes never leaving Tony's. "If he so much as flinches in a manner that I feel is threatening, I'll kill him and he knows it."

From the corner of his eye, Tony sees Ivan's nostrils flare and his mouth twist in anger.

The American nods toward him again to indicate that Tony needed to hurry up.

Fumbling the rope in his fingers, Tony stepped over the bodies again to slowly make his way toward Ivan, finding it impossible not to look at him the closer he get. His smile spreads and Tony's hands are shaking so conspicuously that he takes notice; his sinister brown eyes skirt them briefly without moving her head.

"You really did it this time," he taunts. "How did you get out of the fence? Did Rhodey help you?"

Tony is almost behind him when he mentions Rhodey and that causes him to almost drop the rope. Ivan is quick to notice his reaction exactly for what it is: worry. And he runs with it.

An even more sadistic grin tugs the corners of his lips. "Ah, I see," he says. "So he did help you." Ivan clicked his tongue. "Unfortunate for poor Rhodey, he will be punished. But you already knew that, didn't you, Tony?"

"Rhodey had nothing to do with it!" Tony glared, screaming in Russian, as if he's still back at the compound.

Tony knows he's trying to get to me, but he also knows that what he's saying about Rhodey being punished is true and already Tony wishes he could go back in time.

This entire situation just changed in the worst way. It's not just about me anymore. I should've known this before I crawled out that window.

Hammer and Ivan knew how close Rhodey and Tony had become in their short time there.

A large part of Tony wanted to give up and go back, but now with the American controlling the situation, that's no longer in the cards.

"Stop talking and tie his hands behind him," the American says from behind.

"Fine. Go ahead. Do what you want with him," Tony shrugged to Ivan as he walked around behind his chair. "I got out. He didn't. It's sad, but there's nothing I can do about it. I'm not going back to that place, not even for him." Tony hoped he believed him, that he didn't care what happened to Rhodey, so maybe they won't use him against Tony.

"I said stop talking."

The unnatural frustration in the American's tone, though restrained, is enough to get both of their attention. Ivan and Tony snap their head over to look at him at the same time.

Tony doesn't hesitate as he does exactly as the American says, fearing he might just shoot him in the leg next as he crouches behind Ivan to begin tying his wrists together. The American watched Ivan seemingly without blinking, waiting for him to slip up and give him more reason to shoot the Russian. Tony tied her wrists good, wrapping the semi-stretchy rope three times, tying it into a knot each round. Once the rope pinches his skin, Ivan tossed his head to the side in an attempt to lock eyes with Tony, his teeth gritting in anger. "Watch it," he snapped, his long, greasy, black hair falls to one side around his face as Tony tied the last knot even tighter, just because he could.

If looks could kill, he'd be dead ten times over.

"Now step away from him," the American instructs.

He stands from the bed and slides his elongated suitcase out from underneath it.

Stepping away and with the backward tilt of his head, Tony continued to follow his instructions and made his way over next to him. Taking his still bound wrist in one hand and his suitcase in the other and walks Tony towards the door, only letting go of his wrist long enough to pick his bag up from the table and shoulder it.

He leaves his long black coat. Surely he sees it, but Tony gets the feeling he's leaving it draped over the back of the chair on purpose.

"I'll kill you if you leave me here like this," Ivan growls through gritted teeth, but his threat comes out thickly with desperation. He begins to struggle in the chair, trying to work his hands free. "Don't leave me like this! How can I tell Hammer what you want if I'm stuck in this room?"

Sunlight fills the room when the American opens the door with two fingers from the hand holding the suitcase.

"You'll get yourself free in time," he says and steps out the door with Tony at his side. "Inform Hammer that I will be in touch and not to lose or discard the cell phone number that I last called him on." He pulls the door shut with the same two fingers as they hear Ivan's livid voice screaming curses at us from inside as we leave him there.

He guides Tony around to the front passenger's seat and closes the door behind him once he's inside. The trunk pops open and he hides his suitcase and black duffle bag away inside of it.

Tony's ears pick up four muffled shots outside the car as the American takes out two tires on each of the trucks parked out front.

He shuts the driver's side door and looks over at the boy next to him.

"Put on your seatbelt," He orders Ton glancing away from his eyes and turning the key in the ignition.

The car hums to life as Tony clicks his seatbelt in place quickly.

"You killed those people." Tony says quietly. It was mostly a mental note to himself more than anything.

He backs out of the dirt-covered space in front of the odd roadside motel, which really looks more like a five-room shack.

The American presses his foot on the brake and looks over at Tony again. "Flesh wounds," he says and shifts the car into Drive. "He'll live. And that one was hardly a person." He pulls away, the sleek black car stirring up a cloud of dirt behind us.

He's right in that aspect. Ivan is a human, but he doesn't deserve to be treated like one and it's his own fault.

As they're speeding down the dusty highway and away from the motel, the American reaches into the console between them and retrieves a small black cell phone. Running his finger over the screen, the speakerphone comes on and suddenly Ivan's voice fills the car. Tony furrowed his eyebrows, confused by it at first but soon understand that, if he's right, there was a reason the American left his long coat in the room, after all.

Tony listened to Ivan's voice stream through the tiny speaker:

"He's gone! Get up and untie me! Hurry!"

A rustling sound muffles his voice and then other strange, unidentifiable noises.

"Get me out of these ropes!"

_One of the men was left alive?_

Tony glanced over at the American whose eyes remain fixed on the road out ahead, but his ears are fully open to the voices in his hand. He knew. He knew all along that one of them lay there pretending to be dead. Tony shuddered at the thought that he walked over his body, or around it, so close he could've grabbed him by the ankle and taken me down with him.

More shuffling and cracking noises funnel through the speakerphone. They could hear Ivan tell the man to give him a phone and seconds later he's speaking to Hammer:

"Da, Hammer. He took him. He killed them. No."

He becomes quiet as Hammer, Tony knew without having to hear him, threatens him on the other end of the phone.

"Da," he says gravelly as if forcing himself to agree though it takes everything in him to do so.

Then a loud shot is heard and shortly after a _thump_ and Tony could only assume that he had just killed the man who helped him, likely out of anger for whatever Hammer said.

Everything becomes quiet now. Maybe Ivan had left the room. Several seconds pass and still nothing, only the low static hum of the speakerphone itself. The American, although not famous for facial expressions, seems disappointed. He hangs the phone up, rolls the window down beside him and tosses it onto the highway. Then he makes a sharp U-turn and drives in the opposite direction.

"I take it you didn't hear what you wanted to?" Tony asked carefully, observing the American very carefully.

His right hand drops from the steering wheel and rests along the top of his leg.

"No," he answers.

"You still doubt what I told you," Tony grumbles.

Tony could see from his peripheral vision, that he had turned his head slightly to look at him. Not comfortable enough with him to meet his eyes when he instigates it, Tony glances anywhere but his eyes.

But he doesn't answer.

A minute later, Tony interrupts the silence "I'm not a whore. He was only trying to get to you in case you have any pity for me."

Maybe Tony is insulting his intelligence, just like Ivan had at one point, but this is his way of defending himself from his accusation. Tony wanted him to know and he didn't the American to think that way of him.

Tony continues, finally looking at him now that his eyes are back on the road again.

"But you never had any pity for me to begin with."

Again, his attempt to engage him in conversation seems to go unnoticed and Tony's decided to give up and lay his head against the car window.

"I know you're not a whore," he says.


End file.
